Survival of the Fittest (7 page)

Milo didn’t answer.

“It’s chaos, isn’t it, Detective? You really
don’t
know if similar crimes have occurred and you’re unlikely to
ever
know.”

“One thing that might help in that regard, sir, would be publicizing the crime. I understand your reluctance but—”

“Again,” said Carmeli, clenching his jaws. “Back to me. Us. What could you possibly expect to gain by publicizing the crime other than subjecting my family to more pain and possibly endangering the children of my colleagues?”

“Endangering them how, Mr. Carmeli?”

“Either by inspiring the murderer to kill another Israeli child or giving someone else ideas—go after the Zionists. At that point, we
would
be feeding terrorist fantasies.” He shook his head again. “No, there’s no point, Mr. Sturgis. Besides, if this killer has struck before, it’s been somewhere other than Los Angeles, right?”

“Why do you say that, Mr. Carmeli?”

“Because surely, even with your slipshod procedures, you would have heard about it, no? Surely child murders aren’t that routine, even in Los Angeles.”

“No murders are routine to me, sir.”

“So you’d know if there were others, wouldn’t you?”

“Assuming the crime was reported.”

Carmeli squinted in confusion. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Many crimes aren’t. Murders that look like accidents often aren’t.”

“But the death of a child!” said Carmeli. “Are you telling me there are places in this city where parents wouldn’t report the death of a child?”

“There are, sir,” said Milo, softly. “Because many child homicides are committed by parents.”

Carmeli went white.

Milo began to rub his face but stopped himself. “What I’m saying, sir, is that we can’t assume anything at this point, and going public could jog someone’s memory. A crime that was similar in some crucial way could emerge. Maybe years ago, maybe in another city. Because if we get good media coverage, the exposure would reach other cities. But I can also see your point about the danger. And to be honest, I can’t promise it would do any good.”

Carmeli breathed rapidly several times and placed his hands on the couch. “Your honesty is .   .   . laudable. Now I will be frank with you: not a chance. The risk-outcome ratio isn’t good, I won’t have another child’s death on my conscience. So what
other
avenues will you pursue?”

“I’ll ask lots of questions. Could I ask you a few more?”

“Yes,” said Carmeli, weakly. He reached for a third cigarette, picked up the matchbook but didn’t light up immediately. “But if they’re about our family life, I’ll simply tell you what I told the others: We were happy. A happy family. We never appreciated how happy we were.”

The black eyes closed, then opened. Flat no longer. Something burned within.

“Back to the political issue for a second, sir,” said Milo. “No doubt the consulate gets threats. Do you save them?”

“I’m sure we do but that’s not my area.”

“Do you have any objection to turning over copies?”

“I can ask.”

“If you tell me whose area it is, I’ll be happy to ask, myself.”

“No, I’ll do it.” Carmeli’s hand began to shake. “Your comment. About parents killing their own children. If you were implying—”

“I wasn’t. Of course not, please forgive me if I offended you. I was just explaining why some crimes don’t get reported.”

The black eyes were now moist. Carmeli removed his glasses and wiped them with the back of one hand. “My daughter was—a very special girl. Raising her was challenging and I believe we loved her more because of it. We never hurt her. Never lifted a finger against her. If
anything
we spoiled her. Thank
God
we spoiled her!”

He put the glasses back on, slapped his hands back down on the couch. “What other questions do you have?” Hardened voice.

“I’d like to know more about Irit, Mr. Carmeli.”

“In what way?”

“The kind of child she was, her personality. The things she liked and disliked.”

“She liked everything. A very agreeable child. Kind, happy, always laughing, always wanting to help. I assume you’ve got Gorobich’s files?”

“Yes.”

“Then I don’t need to go over the details of her .   .   . medical condition. As a baby she had a fever that did damage.”

Slipping his hand under his jacket he drew out a large calfskin billfold. Inside were slots for credit cards. A photo sat in the first one and he slipped it out and showed it to us without relinquishing it.

Wallet-sized headshot of a beautiful, smiling child in a white dress with puff sleeves. Jewish star necklace. The same fair, curly hair and flawless skin, the same face .   .   . a mature face, no outward sign of retardation. In the death picture she’d looked younger. In this one, sparked by the joy of life, she could have been anywhere from twelve to seventeen.

“This
was Irit, Detective. Not the images in your files.”

“How long ago was this taken?” said Milo.

“This year. At school.”

“Could I have a copy?”

“If I can find one.” Carmeli pulled the snapshot back, protectively, and returned it to the billfold.

“Did she have friends, sir?”

“Of course. At school. Children her own age were too .   .   . quick for her.”

“What about friends in the neighborhood?”

“Not really.”

“Any older kids who’d bothered or bullied her?”

“Why? Because she was different?”

“It happens.”

“No,” said Carmeli. “Irit was sweet. She got along with everybody. And we sheltered her.”

He blinked hard, lit up.

Milo said, “How hard of hearing was she?”

“She had no hearing in the right ear, about thirty-percent function in the left.”

“With or without the hearing aid?”

“With. Without the aid she could barely hear at all, but she seldom used it.”

“Why not?”

“She didn’t like it, complained it was too loud, gave her headaches. We had it adjusted several times but she never liked it. Actually I—”

He buried his face in his hands.

Milo sat back. Now, he rubbed his face.

A moment later, Carmeli sat up. Inhaling the third cigarette, he talked through the smoke.

“She tried to deceive us about it. Wearing it when she left the house, then pulling it out the moment she got on the school bus. Or if not then, in class. Or losing it—we went through several replacements. We had her teachers make sure she wore it. So she began leaving it in her ear but switching it off. Sometimes she remembered to switch it back on when she came home but usually she didn’t, so we knew—she was a sweet child, Mr. Sturgis. Innocent, not good at sneaking. But she did have a will. We tried reasoning with her, bribing her. Nothing worked. Finally, we came to the conclusion that she
preferred
not hearing. Being able to shut the world out, create her own world. Does that make sense to you, Doctor?”

“Yes, I’ve seen that,” I said.

“My wife has, too. She’s a teacher. In London she worked at a school for special children, said many kids with problems enter their own private worlds. Still, we wanted Irit to know what was going on around her. We never stopped reminding her to use it.”

“So that day,” said Milo, “even though she was wearing it, you don’t know if it was switched on.”

“My guess would be that it was off.”

Milo thought, rubbed his face again. “Thirty percent in one ear at best. So even with the aid, it’s likely she couldn’t hear much of what was going on around her.”

“No, not much.” Carmeli smoked and sat straighter.

“Was Irit very trusting?” I said.

He took a deep breath. “You need to understand, Doctor, that she grew up in Israel and in Europe, where things are much safer and children are much freer.”

“Israel’s safer?” said Milo.

“Much safer, Mr. Sturgis. Your media play up the occasional incident, but outside of political terrorism, violence is very low. And in Copenhagen and London, where we lived later, she was also relatively free.”

“Despite being the child of a diplomat?” I said.

“Yes. We lived in good neighborhoods. Here in Los Angeles, a good neighborhood means nothing. Nothing prepared us for this city—certainly, Irit was trusting. She liked people. We taught her about strangers, the need to be cautious. She said she understood. But she was—in her own way she was very smart. But also young for her age—her brother is only seven but in some ways he was the older child. More .   .   . sophisticated. He’s a very gifted boy.   .   .   . Would Irit have gone with a stranger? I’d like to think no. Am I sure?” He shook his head.

“I’d like to speak to your wife,” said Milo. “We’ll be talking to your neighbors, as well. To find out if anyone noticed anything unusual on your street.”

“No one did,” said Carmeli. “I asked them. But go ahead, ask them yourself. In terms of my wife, however, I insist on drawing some ground rules: You may not imply in
any
way that she could be responsible, the way you implied with me.”

“Mr. Carmeli—”

“Do I make myself
clear,
Detective?”

His voice was loud, again, and his narrow torso had tensed, the shoulders up, as if he was prepared to strike out.

“Sir,” said Milo, “I have no intention of adding to your wife’s stress and I’m sorry if I offended you—”

“Not a
hint,
” said Carmeli. “I won’t permit you to speak to her, otherwise. She has experienced enough pain in her life. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll be present when you speak to her. And you may not talk to my son. He’s too young, has no business with the police.”

Milo didn’t answer.

“You don’t like this,” said Carmeli. “You think I’m being .   .   . obstructionistic. But it’s my family, not yours.”

He sprang up, stood at attention, eyes fixed on the door. A dignitary at a boring but important function.

We rose, too.

“When can we meet Mrs. Carmeli?” said Milo.

“I’ll call you.” Carmeli strode to the door and held it open. “Be brutally honest, Mr. Sturgis. Do you have any hope of finding this monster?”

“I’ll do my best, Mr. Carmeli, but I deal in details, not hope.”

“I see .   .   . I’m not a religious man, never attend synagogue except for official business. But if there is a life after death I’m fairly certain I’m going to heaven. Do you know why?”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve already been to hell.”

Chapter

8

Descending in the elevator, Milo said, “That room. Wonder if Gorobich and Ramos merited his private office.”

“Putting some distance between the murder and his work?”

“Distance is a big issue for him, isn’t it?”

“Can you blame him?” I said. “Losing a child is bad enough without attributing it to your career choice. I’m sure he considered the political angle right from the beginning. The entire consulate probably did, and they decided it wasn’t a factor. As you said, if they thought it was, they’d handle it themselves. And what Carmeli said about terrorism as attention-seeking backs that up. The same thing applies to counterterrorism: Send a message. Someone’s out for your kids, come down hard and fast and with enough publicity to provide strong deterrence. And something else: Carmeli’s demeanor wasn’t that of a man who’s achieved even the slightest closure. He’s hurting, Milo. Starving for answers.”

He frowned. “And we haven’t given him any. Maybe that’s another reason he doesn’t like the department.”

“What do you mean?”

“That crack about having worked with us before. Someone probably screwed up on his parade or something. Sticking with the baseball analogies, I’m starting out with two strikes against me.”

The car was where we’d left it. He gave the parking attendant another tip, backed out, and drove down the exit ramp. Traffic was heavy on Wilshire and he waited to turn left.

“That room,” he said, again. “Did you see the way the smoke got sucked up into the ceiling? Maybe he’s not James Bond but my Mossad fantasies are taking over and I keep flashing images of secret tunnels up there, all this cloak-and-dagger crap.”

“License to cater,” I said.

“And cynical old me thinks: protesting too much .   .   . any other impressions of him?”

“No, just what I said.”

“No special antenna-twang?”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “I can understand his wanting to keep distance between the murder and his job but don’t you think he could have been a little more forthcoming? Like volunteering to turn over the consulate’s crank mail .   .   . not that I blame him, I guess. From his perspective we’re clowns who haven’t done squat.”

He made the turn.

“Changing the subject,” I said. “The hearing aid. I keep thinking it was left there deliberately. Maybe the killer’s telling us that’s why he chose her.”

“Telling us? A game-player?”

“There’s a gamelike quality to it, Milo. Malignant play. And what Carmeli told us about Irit’s turning off the hearing aid, retreating to her own private world, would have made her a perfect target. For children, private worlds often mean overt self-stimulation: fantasizing, talking to themselves, strange-looking body movements. The killer could have watched and seen all that: first the hearing aid, then Irit wandering away from the others, acting preoccupied, lost in fantasy. He pulled her out of her script and into his.”

“Wandered off,” he said. “So maybe we’re just talking real bad luck.”

“A mixture of bad luck and victim characteristics.”

A moment later something else hit me.

“There’s a whole other possibility,” I said. “It
was
someone who knew her. Knew that even when she wore the aid, she turned it off and was easy to sneak up on.”

He drove slowly, jaws knotted, squinting at more than sun-glare. We traveled for three blocks before he spoke.

“So back to the old acquaintance list. Teachers, the bus driver. And neighbors, no matter what Carmeli says. I’ve seen too many girls brutalized by supposed friends and acquaintances. The wholesome kid down the block who up til then only cut up cats and dogs when no one was looking.”